moment before his finely furred features broke into a
wide smile.
Friend-Gregori,' came his hollow, fluty voice.
'Whether I ride in a dirigible or make the shuttle journey
to our blessed Segrana, I am always amazed to discover
myself alive at the end!'
They laughed together as they continued down the
side of Giant's Shoulder. It was a cool, clammy night and
Greg wished he had worn something heavier than just a
work shirt.
'And you've still no idea why they're holding this
zinsilu at Ibsenskog?' Greg said. For the Uvovo, a zin-
silu was part life evaluation, part meditation. T mean,
the Listeners do have access to the government comnet
if they need to contact any of the seeders and schol-
ars .. .' Then something occurred to him. 'Here, they're
not going to reassign ye, are they? Chel, I won't be able
to manage both the dig and the daughter-forest reports
on my own! - I really need your help.'
'Do not worry, friend-Gregori,' said the Uvovo.
'Listener Weynl has always let it be known that my role
here is considered very important. Once this zinsilu is
concluded, I am sure that I will be returning without
delay.'
I hope you're right, Greg thought. The Institute isna
very forgiving when it comes to shortcomings and
unachieved goals.
'After all,' Chel went on, 'your Founders' Victory
celebrations are only a few days away and I want to
be here to observe all your ceremonies and rituals.'
Greg gave a wry half-grin. 'Aye . . . well, some of our
"rituals" can get a bit boisterous . . .'
By now the gravel path was levelling off as they
approached the zep station and overhead Greg could
hear the faint peeps of umisk lizards calling to each
other from their little lairs scattered across the sheer
face of Giant's Shoulder. The station was little more
than a buttressed platform with a couple of buiidb gs
and a five-yard-long covered gantry jutting straight out.
A government dirigible was moored there, a gently
swaying 50-footer consisting of two cylindrical gasbags
lashed together with taut webbing and an enclosed g< n-
dola hanging beneath. The skin of the inflatable sections
was made from a tough composite fabric, but exposure
to the elements and a number of patch repairs gave it a
ramshackle appearance, in common with most of the
workaday government zeplins. A light glowed in the
cockpit of the boatlike gondola, and the rear-facing,
three-bladed propeller turned lazily in the steady breeze
coming in from the sea.
Fredriksen, the station manager, waved from the
waiting-room door while a man in a green and grey
jumpsuit emerged from the gantry to meet them.
'Good day, good day,' he said, regarding first Greg
then the Uvovo. 'I am Pilot Yakov. If either of you is
Scholar Cheluvahar, I am ready to depart.'
T am Scholar Cheluvahar,' Chel said.
'Most excellent. I shall start the engine.' He nodded
at Greg then went back to the gantry, ducking as he
entered.
'Mind to send a message when you reach Ibsenskog,'
Greg told Chel. 'And don't worry about the flight - it'll
be over before you know it. . .'
'Ah, friend-Gregori - I am of the Warrior Uvovo.
Such tests are breath and life itself!'
Then with a smile he turned and hurried after the
pilot. A pure electric whine came from the gondola's aft
section, rising in pitch as the prop spun faster. Greg
heard the solid knock of wooden gears as the station
manager cranked in the gantry then triggered the moor-
ing cable releases. Suddenly free upon the air, the
dirigible swayed as it began drifting away, picking up
speed and banking away from the sheer face of Giant's
Shoulder. The trip down to Port Gagarin was only a
half-hour hop, after which Chel would catch a com-
mercial lifter bound for the Eastern Towns and the
daughter-forest Ibsenskog. Greg could not see his friend
at any of the gondola's opaque portholes but he waved
anyway for about a minute, then just stood watching the
zeplin's descent into the deepening dusk. Feeling a chill
in the air, he fastened some of his shirt buttons while
continuing to enjoy the peace. The zep station was
nearly 50 feet below the main dig site but it was still
some 300 feet above sea level. Giant's Shoulder itself
was an imposing spur jutting eastwards from a towering
massif known as the Kentigern Mountains, a raw
wilderness largely avoided by trappers and hunters,
although the Uvovo claimed to have explored a good
deal of it.
As the zeplin's running lamps receded, Greg took in
the panorama before him, the coastal plain stretching
several miles east to the darkening expanse of the
Korzybski Sea and the lights of towns scattered all
around its long western shore. Far off to the south was
the bright glitterglow of Hammergard, sitting astride a
land bridge separating Loch Morwen from the sea;
beyond the city, hidden by the misty murk of evening,
was a ragged coastline of sealochs and fjords where the
Eastern Towns nestled. South of them were hills and a
high valley cloaked by the daughter-forest Ibsenskog.
Before his standpoint were the jewelled clusters of Port
Gagarin, slightly to the south, High Lochiel a few miles
northwest, and Landfall, where the cannibalised hulk of
the old colonyship, the Hyperion, lay in the sad tran-
quillity of Membrance Vale. Then further north were
New Kelso, Engerhold, Laika, and the logging and
farmer settlements scattering north and west, while off
past the northeast horizon was Trond.
His mood darkened. Trond was the city he had left
just two short months ago, fleeing the trap of his disas-
trous cohabitance with Inga, a mistake whose wounds
were still raw. But before his thoughts could begin cir-
cling the pain of it, he stood straighter and breathed in
the cold air, determined not to dwell on bitterness and
regret. Instead, he turned his gaze southwards to see the
moonrise.
A curve of blue-green was gradually emerging from
behind the jagged peaks of the Hrothgar Range which
lined the horizon: Nivyesta, Darien's lush arboreal
moon, brimming with life and mystery, and home to the
Uvovo, wardens of the girdling forest they called
Segrana. Once, millennia ago, the greater part of their
arboreal civilisation had inhabited Darien, which they
called Umara, but some indeterminate catastrophe had
wiped out the planetary population, leaving those on
the moon alive but stranded.
On a clear night like this, the starmist in Darien's
upper atmosphere wreathed Nivyesta in a gauzy halo of
mingling colours like some fabulous eye staring down
on the little niche that humans had made for themselves
on this alien world. It was a sight
that never failed to
raise his spirits. But the night was growing chilly now, so
he buttoned his shirt to the neck and began retracing his
steps. He was halfway up the path when his comm
chimed. Digging it out of his shirt pocket he saw that it
was his elder brother and decided to answer.
'Hi, Ian - how're ye doing?' he said, walking on.
'Not so bad. Just back from manoeuvres and looking
forward to FV Day, chance to get a wee bit of R&R.
Yourself}'
Greg smiled. Ian was a part-time soldier with the
Darien Volunteer Corps and was never happier than
when he was marching across miles of sodden bog or
scaling basalt cliffs in the Hrothgars, apart from when
he was home with his wife and daughter.
'I'm settling in pretty well,' he said. 'Getting to grips
with all the details of the job, making sure that the var-
ious teams file their reports on something like a regular
schedule, that sort of thing.'
'But are you happy staying at the temple site, Greg? -
because you know that we've plenty of room here and I
know that you loved living in Hammergard, before the
whole Inga episode . . .'
Greg grinned.
'Honest, Ian, I'm fine right here. I love my work, the
surroundings are peaceful and the view is fantastic! I
be.'
'S'okay, laddie, just making sure. Have you heard
from Ned since you got back, by the way}'
'Just a brief letter, which is okay. He's a busy doctor
these days . . .'
Ned, the third and youngest brother, was very poor at
keeping in touch, much to Ian's annoyance, which often
prompted Greg to defend him.
'Aye, right, busy. So - when are we likely to see ye
next} Can ye not come down for the celebrations ?'
'Sorry, Ian, I'm needed here, but I do have a meeting
scheduled at the Uminsky Institute in a fortnight - shall
we get together then?'
'That sounds great. Let me know nearer the time and
I'll make arrangements.'
They both said farewell and hung up. Greg strolled
leisurely on, smiling expectantly, keeping the comm in
his hand. As he walked he thought about the dig site up
on Giant's Shoulder, the many hours he'd spent
painstakingly uncovering this carven stela or that section
of intricately tiled floor, not to mention the countless
days devoted to cataloguing, dating, sample analysis and
correlation matching. Sometimes - well, a lot of the
time - it was a frustrating process, as there was nothing
to guide them in comprehending the meaning of the
site's layout and function. Even the Uvovo scholars were
at a loss, explaining that the working of stone was a skill
lost at the time of the War of the Long Night, one of the
darker episodes in Uvovo folklore.
Ten minutes later he was near the top of the path
when his comm chimed again, and without looking at
the display he brought it up and said:
'Hi, Mum.'
'Gregory, son, are you well?
'Mum, I'm fine, feeling okay and happy too, really ...'
'Yes, now that you're out of her clutches! But are
you not lonely up there amongst those cold stones and
only the little Uvovo to talk to?'
Greg held back the urge to sigh. In a way, she was
right - it was a secluded existence, living pretty much on
his own in one of the site cabins. There was a three-man
team of researchers from the university working on the
site's carvings, but they were all Russian and mostly
kept to themselves, as did the Uvovo teams who came in
from the outlying stations now and then. Some of the
Uvovo scholars he knew by name but only Chel had
become a friend.
'A bit of solitude is just what I need right now, Mum.
Beside, there's always people coming and going up here.'
'Mm-hmm. There were always people coming and
going here at the house when your father was a coun-
cilman, hut most of them I did not care for, as you might
recall'
'Oh, I remember, all right.'
Greg also remembered which ones stayed loyal when
his father fell ill with the tumour that eventually killed
him.
'As a matter of fact, I was discussing both you and
your father with your Uncle Theodor, who came by this
afternoon.''
Greg raised his eyebrows. Theodor Karlsson was his
mother's oldest brother and had earned himself a certain
notoriety and the nickname 'Black Theo' for his role in
the abortive Winter Coup twenty years ago. As a pun-
ishment he had been kept under house arrest on New
Kelso for twelve years, during which he fished, studied
military history and wrote, although on his release the
Hammergard government informed him that he was
forbidden to publish anything, fact or fiction, on pain of
bail suspension. For the last eight years he had tried his
hand at a variety of jobs, while keeping in occasional
contact with his sister, and Greg vaguely recalled that he
had somehow got involved with the Hyperion Data
Project. . .
'So what's Uncle Theo been saying?'
'Well, he has heard some news that will amaze you -
I can still scarcely believe it myself. It is going to change
'Don't tell me that he wants to overthrow the gov-
ernment again.'
'Please, Gregori, that is not even slightly funny ..."
'Sorry, Mum, sorry. Please, what did he say?'
From where he stood at the head of the path he had
a clear view of the dig, the square central building look-
ing bleached and grey in the glare of the nightlamps. As
Greg listened his expression went from puzzled to aston-
ished, and he let out an elated laugh as he looked up at
the stars. Then he got his mother to tell him again.
'Mum, you've got to be kidding me! . . .'
2
THEO
Theodor Karlsson had a spring in his step as he walked
up a private footpath towards the presidential villa. Tall,
thick bushes concealed it from inquisitive eyes, and
waist-high lantern posts shed pools of subdued radiance
all along its length. His long, heavy coat was three-quar-
ters fastened and his custom-soled shoes made little
noise on the tiled path. The villa grounds were dark and
still in the cool of the evening but Karlsson could almost
smell the weave of seamless security which enclosed the
place. There was a visible perimeter of patrols and cam-
eras down at the main wall and gate, and a pair of
guards at the side-door up ahead, but Theo knew that
the best security was seldom seen. The question that
loomed large in his mind, however, was who was it all
meant to keep out?
The guards, both wearing dark imager eye-pieces,
were muttering into collar mikes as he approached.
'Good evening, Major,' said one. 'If you could look
into the s
canner with your right eye.'
He stepped up to the plain wooden door, followed
instructions, and moments later he heard several muf-
fled thuds. The door swung open. Inside he was met by
a composed, middle-aged woman who took his coat
then led him along a narrow, windowless corridor, past
a number of bland, pastoral paintings, then up a poorly
lit curve of steps to a landing with two doors. Without
pause she continued through the left one and Karlsson
found himself in a warm, carpeted study.
'Please make yourself comfortable, Major Karlsson.
The president will see you shortly'
'Thank you . . .' Theo began to say, but she ,vas
already leaving the room, closing the door behind her He
surveyed his surroundings, a medium-sized room with
well-stocked bookshelves, a log fire burning in the herrth,
and an ornate adjustable lamp hanging over a large cl zsi .
A ceiling-high rack of shelves partially concealed a second
door in one corner and a hand-eye security lock.
The belly of the beast, he thought. Or maybe the
lion's den.
It always felt like this whenever he had these meetings
with Sundstrom, no matter where they took place.
Which was why he had got into the habit of visiting his
sister, Solvjeg, shortly beforehand, just to quietly let her
know where he would be for the next few hours, with a
veiled hint as to whom he was meeting. Today, though,
she was full of eagerness to know if the rumours were
true, that there had been a signal from Earth.
Theo grinned, recalling the moment. The message
had apparently been received that morning, yet he had
heard it sixth-hand from an old friend in the Corps by
mid-afternoon, so it was no surprise that Solvjeg picked
it up from the old girls' network. Now it was evening
and the rumours were all over the colony. Even
Kirkland, the leader of the opposition, had issued a
statement, but so far there had been no official confir-
mation from either the council or the president's office.
A ship from Earthl he thought. So now we know
that the human race survived the Swarm War, but did
we beat them or did other survivors flee from Earth?
And what happened to the other two colonyships, the
Forrestal and the Tenebrosaf
His mind was a ferment of questions, the outcome of